On the Road
by GearSolidSnake
Summary: Through a brutal winter filled with the horrors of the zombie apocalypse, Rigby the raccoon is left to survive on his own. Separated from everyone he knows, with... those... swarming at every corner, and the people being just as dangerous as the undead; everything is just about living one more day on the road... -Not humanized-Rating change-
1. On the Road

This began as a quick thought in my head but, like all thoughts I have, it occupied my mind and would not leave, or let me get back to Chronicles of the Enchiridion, until I wrote it down.

Yes, it looks like it's my turn for the ill-faded "Zombie Apocalypse" story. Whoo. But honestly, I don't feel that there are many strong ones on this board; or, at least none that get thick of what makes the zombie apocalypse the zombie apocalypse. It is about your own humanity and survival. Very rarely is there ever the _survival_ aspect, where those left are clambering for whatever they can to live on just one more day. It's only partially about the actual guns and killing.

I'm already covering a different kind of apocalypse with my biggest story, Chronicles of the Enchiridion. However, I hate that I won't get the bone-crushing blunt of the end of the world based on how I have the events of the story laid out. So, here's this.

ANYWAY,

This has influence from S.T.A.L.K.E.R. (though I never played it) and has very Russian vibe to it. This first chapter can be rated T, but any others that may be added will probably pump this to M.

This story was named after the song that inspired it: "On the Road" by _The Red Army Choir_. I would recommend listening to it at least once during the story. And, if you must, clutch your SKS and stiff a good shot of vodka.

Enjoy.

* * *

The cold winter air was billowing fiercely across the empty, barren plains outside of town. It chills to the point where your muscles tense and you feel your very bones freezing.

On the road; another step to nowhere.

Rigby the raccoon braces himself against the chilling gust of wind. He brings up his right hand to shield his face. He wishes it would stop. Every day it hounds him. Everyday it seems a message to give up; to abandon everything.

His dense, heavy wool coat blocks most of the deluge. The olive color provides good camouflage at least, but it reeks of the dead man he took it from. Despite its convenience, he keeps the hood down in the off chance that maybe... _just maybe_... someone he knows will recognize him before they blow his brains out.

The wooden SKS rifle dangles loosely in his left hand. The bolt is drawn back and the collapsible bayonet is folded underneath the barrel. Across his coat sits a vest just as ugly and torn as everything else Rigby carries. It holds everything from stripper clips for his rifle to lighters, a flashlight, his water canteen, and some loose rounds. In a holster on his belt is a cheap revolver.

He was never very good with a gun, hell he never even fired one before this all started. Benson taught them all the basics at least. That was two weeks ago...

The sack on his back digs deep into his shoulders. His tarp sits pulled over it.

Everything is patchy and torn to shreds, but it's his livelihood. It's all Rigby has left.

Another step to nowhere.

Rigby looks to his right. Across the hills and valleys, dead, pale grass pollutes as far as the eye can see. It fits the matching gray sky overhead. The road he walks is as barren and empty as Rigby's world.

It's been six days since Rigby has seen another living soul... other than _them_. The last person he saw was foaming at the mouth and contorting his body in unholy, bone crunching positions. His eyes were glassy and his hair was falling out. Rigby had the decency to splatter his brains across the ground and put him out of his misery. He wasn't proud of taking his wool jacket, but Rigby would need it more than him. The risk of infection didn't matter to him. If what happened to Muscle Man happened to him at this point, he wouldn't mind. But if it did, he wouldn't let it be from a bite.

If one of them does bite you, if you're lucky, you'll probably die quickly as your chest is ripped open and your organs tossed carelessly from your body. This is only if you don't kill them after the first brutal gnaw. It's better than the agonizing pain of turning into them.

_"How long has it been?"_ Rigby ponders momentarily.

With his mundane routine of walking to wherever the road leads on, it's all too easy to lose track of time. Has it been a month since this started? Two months? It might as well be ten months of winter.

All he knows is that he lost sight of Mordecai and the others two weeks ago when they were swarmed. The burning question of who's alive and who's dead still haunts him and adds to the sleepless nights of wonderment.

It's getting dark. Night will come soon.

Rigby ventures from the road into the woods a few hundred feet away. These are some of the only exceptions to departing from the guiding hand of the road.

Rigby finds an toppled dead tree, the roots forming a cove. Perfect. He takes some worn extension cords and rope from his bag as well as untying his brown tarp. He ties it across several trees, angling it away from the cove and facing the road. Once that is done, Rigby scurries through the woodlands around him collecting dead branches.

The wood is piled into a tee-pee and the leaves on the bottom are lit with two matches. Matches are less valuable to waste than lighters. The campfire lies between the tree and the tarp. Thank Christ Thomas was a Boy Scout and taught the rest of the park crew how to build these things.

The tarp keeps the light and heat angled towards Rigby while shielding it from sight of any desperate passerby looking to kill.

The raccoon sheds off the vest, then his coat. His fur bristles in the open air. The fire keeps him warm at least.

Rigby rests against the tree stump. His SKS lies cradled in his arms with a fresh ten-round stripper clip in front of him.

He lies motionless, but awake. It takes the painful memory of Eileen being torn from his arms to make him cry himself to sleep. He dreams about playing video games with Mordecai and slacking off. One of _them_ interrupts their playful session and coats the walls in the blue jay's blood. _It's your turn next_ is written.

The raccoon jerks himself awake, rifle immediately pointed around him. His heart is pounding fast and loud enough to be seemingly be heard for miles.

It takes a minute of realization that he's still alive and his weapon is still unloaded before he calms himself.

He wipes the tears from his face. He hadn't realized he was crying so hard.

Nothing of the fire remains except thin streams of smoke.

The stomach groans loudly. Rigby pulls one of the few cans of corn out of his bag. This will have to be eaten cold. The raccoon stabs the top of the can with his k-bar from his belt and pries the lid off.

He's not ashamed to dive snout first into his food. He gets every kernel and even drinks the revolting, foggy juice inside. Food is hard to come by and he won't let anything go to waste. After wiping his face off, the lone survivor packs down the tarp, covers the fire, removes any traces he was there, and puts his damp, sweat drenched coat and ammo vest back on.

Another day on the road.

He sulks forward, following the bends and curves of the highway he calls his unofficial home.

His feet are killing him at this point. He wishes he found some boots or shoes.

Suddenly, the wind picks up, much more brutally this time. Except now, it carries something much more deadly: snow.

Rigby is forced to put up his hood as he braces for the unbearable cold. The forces of nature grow angrier and angrier as the wind cuts through the air.

The snow blankets everything in sight in a haze of white. Rigby stumbles forward, barely able to see fifty feet in front of him. His feet waver with each step.

Goddamn, he could use some shoes right now.

With nothing to occupy his time and just the empty pavement and nature's howling banshee to keep him company, the former groundskeeper falls into a daze of thought.

He thinks back to the rest of his coworkers who were alive with him. He'd be dead time after time if it wasn't for them. Benson kept them all in line and organized. Skips was not only the calmest in tough situations, but also the strongest. He grappled with one barehanded and ripped its jaw from its skull. Thomas knew some vital stuff, but could be as useless as Rigby at times. Pops kept everyone going with his optimism, as did Muscle Man and High Five Ghost with their jokes and humor. It was nice to have. It was a blow to everyone when Muscle Man turned and Fives left. Margaret and Eileen were with them. He tried to hold her close until the end. He never wanted her to leave her side. _I don't know what's more painful, her being ripped right out of my arms or being to stupid to tell her that I loved her before she was gone. _He'd like to think Eileen is still alive, but he knows she probably isn't anymore. Then there's Mordecai...

Mordecai saved his life on so many more occasions that did Rigby in returning the favor. He made sure Rigby was alive. He kept the poor raccoon going after Eileen was separated. He's the one who gave him the drive to keep moving on. Rigby never thanked him as much as he should have for everything.

_How am I still alive... Me... Rigby? It's just me. I'm not special at all. I was the weakest out of all of them. I even overheard Muscle Man say that I wasn't going to make it._

_How the hell am I still alive even though everyone else is dead?!_

Crap.

CRAP!

A pale green smog came tumbling ahead of him through the wintry curtain. He was dozing off for too long to realize what was right in front of him.

Rigby stops and throws his bag in front of him. "Come on. Come on!" he mutters aloud.

Finally he finds the worn, pale gas mask and straps it over his muzzle. The hose at the end connects to the filter which he clips to his vest.

He hates wearing it. It feels like he's monster inside of it. The bandits always wore these wretched things whenever they robbed. They do a fantastic job of terrifying everyone around you.

His field of view is restricted to two, small circles surrounded in darkness. His breathing echoes through the mask. Through the lenses, he can see the green gas weave around him.

He slips the bag back on and dons the loaded revolver.

No one knows what the hell this gas is or where it comes from. All anyone knows is that it scorches your throat and makes you choke on your own blood. On top of that, _they_ aren't hurt by it... An ambush through the smog is the most likely way to die.

Rigby's revolver quivers at his side. His SKS slings over his left shoulder and his hand draws out the k-bar. At this range, if anything did pounce, his rifle would be useless.

The smoke here is too thick. If the snow wasn't bad enough, it seems that the green, poisonous air extends miles in both directions.

Can't go around it.

It would be stupid to wait it out.

Can't outrun it going back.

The only way is to go right through it.

On the road, he scans everything.

His mask darts constantly darts back and forth, gun wavering.

_HAEEEUUUGGHHFF_

_HUUUEEE_

His breathing is emulated. It creates odd sounds in his head. It's playing with his mind. The _crunch_ of the accumulating snow beneath his feet doesn't help either.

For three agonizing hours, he shuffled through the smog, pistol always at the ready.

Finally, the green smog clears, but the snow refuses to let up. The frozen whiteness blankets the ground by at least a half of an inch.

He can relax a little bit. Back into the holsters the knife and revolver depart and the SKS takes their places. Rigby does not want to waste the effort to remove his gas mask until he has to sleep.

Nightfall again.

There's nowhere in this section of woods, plus the snow blankets everything. He sets his camp against the trunk of a pine that is relatively clear underneath.

As if by a miracle, he manages a lit fire.

He can't remove his stingy, smelling coat this time. It's far too cold. He'll have to just sleep with it on, rifle in his arms.

He eats a few slices of deer jerky in a plastic bag before falling asleep, again to the thoughts of Eileen and the others.

A high pitch screech pierces through the night. It cracks through the air, sounding like the banshee of hell.

Rigby jerks awake. He knows that sound.

He immediately smothers the fire with the butt of his rifle. "Oh crap oh crap oh crap!" His heart leaps from his chest.

The fire is smother and Rigby's hands fumble with the ammo vest to his side. His eyes dart around the pitch blackness. Quivering fingers dive through pocket after pocket.

_"Where is it?!"_

Finally, he finds the ten round stripper clip. He unlatches the bayonet and fixes it on the muzzle. The clip slides into the catch at the back of the action. He presses the rounds into the rifle with his thumb and puts the clip in his pocket.

Slide racked forward and finger on the trigger.

He looks everywhere. There' no signs of life. Not even the mist of breathing other than his own.

He hears another ear piercing screech.

The crack of rifles in the distance.

Another scream. This time, it's a man's.

Poor guy.

Rigby relaxes a bit, blinking at the realization of what's happening. But still, it shakes him too much.

He sits against the tree stump, rifle aimed all around.

Not a single minute of sleep that night.

Restless and weary, another day on the road.

The snow still blinds everything as Rigby trudges through. His feet feel frozen, but he presses on. Hopefully he can find the boots of whoever that was last night. Hopefully they had the common sense to off themselves first.

Nothing but blinding whiteness against the pavement.

Finally, he sees something in the distance.

A silhouetted figure.

Rigby unfolds the bayonet on his SKS.

The rounds are still in the chamber. Ten is all he has to protect his life with. Just ten.

He shoulders his rifle, just as Benson showed him.

His breathing is too heavy, surely the stranger heard him by now.

The figure is slugging around, not in any discernible direction.

Rigby clears his throat.

"H-H-ello...?" he calls out.

No response.

Rigby gulps.

"Hello?!"

The figure turns.

Glowing beady eyes meet his. The yellow eyes pierce through the blinding wind.

It's one of them.

_RRRRRRWWWWHHHHHAAAIIIIIIIIIIIII_ It screams violently as it rushes him. It shrieks with all the fury of hell.

It's a screamer.

Oh shit!

Rigby backs up, firing wildly at the charging creature.

He lobs off only three rounds until it reaches him.

The tattered clothes of the monster sat against pale, glossy gray skin. The fingers are mutated into claws.

It leaps onto the terrified raccoon, tumbling both of them to the ground.

The bayonet of the rifle slides through the monster's chest, showering Rigby with its slimy, putrid blood.

A barrel length is all that separates them.

It shrieks again. Rigby's ears ring until he goes momentarily deaf. He's screaming with it.

It's undeterred as its jaws snap wildly. The clicks are menacing and the creature's teeth crack from the sheer pressure of the bite.

Rigby fires his SKS into its chest, round after round. The glowing one jerks as its flesh is ripped into the air until the bullets create a hole large enough that they no longer even touch its flesh.

The Valkyrie still screams.

It slashes for Rigby's face. The raccoon barely ducks, panting heavily as the dirt above him is kicked into the air.

It slides further down the bayonet, jaws inching closer to the raccoon's scrawny neck.

Rigby screams as he lets go of the rifle and draws his revolver.

**_BAM_**

The round goes through the monster's head.

He fires again and again.

It slumps on top of him, dead. The weight crushes his chest.

Rigby wiggles his way out, gasping for air once he does. He turns and pukes across the snowy road.

The smell clings to him.

He yanks out his rifle; the bayonet is slightly bent.

Another scream in the distance behind him.

Rigby looks ahead.

No going back; no going around.

On the road, he presses onward...

* * *

I left a lot of this intentionally vague and in the dark. I'm not sure what I want to do with it yet; whether I start the story from the beginning back and forth or keep it going with just Rigby from here.

Honestly, I think too many characters clutter up stories and can ruin something like this. If I were to go the other route, I could keep it focused solely on Rigby and his struggles for survival. Of course, there would be human foes and other dangers to keep things interesting with some friendly faces, but lone survivor stories intrigue me. Then again, the opening leaves so much for question and imagination and its making _me_ curious as hell how everything unfolded with the rest of the park crew. Or should I just keep this a dark one-shot?

Anyway, leave me a review and let me know what you think of the story and/or what direction I should take.

Thank you guys so much for the read, even if you don't review.

(Also, I have so many stories on my plate that I have no idea _if_ I can update this. The idea is that if I'm not interested in one story one day, there's like five or six more I can turn to. That or I don't have drive for any of them... XP If this gets enough support, I will try my hardest to write it.)


	2. Stay Out of the Cities

Sorry about some spelling mistakes in the last one; I've fixed most of them.

Also, the name "Glowing Ones" is way too Fallout 3 sounding (that was purely accidental, I did not mean to copy. I know they sound like the Ghouls, but S.T.A.L.K.E.R. has something similar). I just renamed them the generic _them_, but there are still _screamers_ and _non-screamers._

Here's chapter two. I don't quite know if this counts as Rated M yet. If it does, let me know and I will change it posthaste.

* * *

The encircling cries from before had faded long ago, yet Rigby's heart still kept pumping madly.

He trudges on the road, desperate. The cutting wind carries only a little snow, but its powerful force chills the blood.

With each step comes a frustrated, angry grunt. His heart feels as though it will give up.

_"Get your finger of the trigger!" _he hears the memory of Benson's drilling ring through his head. Sure enough, Rigby's finger still lies glued in the trigger guard of his SKS. It takes a second of realization to correct this.

His feet shiver and twitch.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Left foot.

Right foot.

He has to scream this in his mind just to move. Every fiber in his legs refuse before reluctantly obeying.

"Stop, stop stop! I can't take it anymore!" he screams aloud, shaking.

He collapses back-first into the snow. His back still collides with the pavement with a _thud_. He leans up to look at his feet. His brown fur masks how they really are; pale and throbbing.

Thank God Rigby was born as a raccoon if only for the fur. It provided warmth, but it could only do so much. Regardless, his throat feels like it is ripping itself apart. He takes out his canteen and drinks everything inside. He then takes the plastic flask and packs it completely with snow. All the while, he shivers and coughs meekly. Rigby puts the canteen inside his coat to melt for later.

Hungry... need to eat...

He swings his backpack around, moves the tarp and digs inside. There has to be something. Between the pots, maps, cartridge boxes, ropes, and whatever the hell this all is, he finds two sleeves of crackers and a can of spam. Damn...

"Damn!"

Rigby sobs without realizing it.

He thought he could make it...? That he actually had a chance?

Ha! As if.

Angrily, Rigby rips open the plastic surrounding the crackers with his teeth and gobbles them down.

The raccoon then stares at his feet, incapable of movement. He could barely feel them. This was all on top of the food he doesn't have, the clean coat which isn't, the clean water he doesn't have, the slavshit excuse of a rifle with a bent bayonet, and the piss-poor revolver at his side._"Oh for the love of-!"_ he yells in his mind. What was he supposed to do?!

If he stays here, one of them will find him and he will die.

If he stays here, he will freeze to death and die.

If he leaves, his feet will give out, he'll collapse, and die.

If he leaves, he will get eventually dehydrated and die.

If he moves, he dies.

If he stays, he dies.

If he does anything, he freaking dies!

"Isn't there anything I can do right?!" he screams furiously.

The only indicator that he's still even on the highway is the shallow, one inch valley between the banks off the road. For all he knows, the road goes on for miles.

He closes his eyes and sighs aloud. Why did this all have to be happening to him?

He turns back, expecting to hear one of their screeches in the distance. The silence except for the wind means that they're long gone... or they're already here.

Either way, there's nothing for him here but death.

Keep moving Rigby, it's almost sunset.

Begrudgingly, the young raccoon lifts himself off the ground, wipes the caked snow off his pants, and continues marching onward.

He doesn't know why he's going on anymore. There's no reason to keep going, yet there's no reason to leave either. _"That, and I'm too lazy to kill myself anyway...and I don't think I have the stomach for it... and what would Eileen say...?"_ His poor sense of humor is cut short by that last, bone crushing thought.

"Just keep moving, man. One step at a time."

* * *

It's almost dark, thought the sun can't be seen behind the clouds.

The wind has died down almost completely and the wind is reduced to small pockets of flakes gracefully falling downwards.

Rigby could barely move. "Ugghhh just let me fall down and diieeeee!" he groaned childishly. Everything hurt.

He looks off to his right and his mind falters. His sense heighten as he shoulder his SKS, ready to fire at anything that comes wandering forward.

Off the highway is an exit ramp. Further up the snow covered pavement lies the faint silhouette of a city's outskirts. It looks like a few low level houses.

Does he dare go in? There's bound to be monsters in there. It's almost night too. But he has no shoes and there's nowhere to camp anyway.

"Ugghhhhhhhh!" he groans as he approaches the ramp and heads into the city.

Off the road, Rigby ventures into the unknown.

Flakes trickle all around. The quarter-mile trek from the highway leads him into the cramped streets. All around, houses are butted up against each other and cars long abandoned pollute the roads. A hardware store on the corner is completely looted and the inside of the store is pitch black. Most of the red brick houses have broken windows with belongings tossed everywhere. A mangled, rotten corpse lies completely severed at the waist on the steps to a house. His spine column sticks out profusely and claw marks line the stone.

Judging by the look of things, he's in some of project or "_that_ side" of town. Then again, everything probably looks like this nowadays.

Rigby shuffles around his vest and retrieves the flashlight. It's best not to waste any time.

He cautiously approaches the nearest boarded house. The door refuses to budge upon the turn of the handle. No good.

The sun is down. Everything is growing dark.

In the distance, he can see a blackened figure moving around. The unnatural turns of the head and the sudden, quick movements tells Rigby everything he needs to know.

He rams against the door, desperate. The creature stops. Did it see him?

He rams it again. Nothing. He draws his k-bar out. He sticks the blade in the door where the lock is. If he can manually open it, he'll be good.

The figure is slowly moving closer, as if inspecting its prey.

"Come on," he says quietly as he fiddles with the knife. All around it grows darker until it is barely pitch black.

Rigby turns back just for a moment to see beady, golden eyes staring back at him from the distance.

He can hear clicking as he pushes the lock back into the mechanism.

He glances back one more time. The eyes are gone, but there's loud movement coming towards him.

_Click_

The door unlocks and he rushes into the darkness inside and locks the door behind him. _THUD_

The monster slams into the door and scratches at it hungrily. It shakes and creaks at the hinges. Rigby presses against it and is immediately tossed from the door to the ground with the next slam. The raccoon lands in something wet, but that can wait. He trains his flashlight around the room. A table sits by the door. Quickly, he runs slides it against the wooden door.

The scratching still continues. This one's not a screamer, but still just as deadly.

Rigby leans back against the wall to the left of the doorway, exhausted. He pants heavily. The groaning and patting against the door keeps him from being completely calm.

With that taken care of, Rigby looks around the pitch black room. The first thing the flashlight shows is a stained red covering the ground. The odor is foul and clogs the senses.

Then he sees the source. A corpse lays in the center on a rug. His head is caved upwards as chunks of skull and brain coat the painted wall behind him. His blood covers everything in sight. Rigby turns away and throws up at the sight, not to mention the smell. He can barely breath. Nevertheless, it's better in here than outside with his guest.

He uncomfortably takes a closer look at the body. The raccoon searches his feet first. He's wearing boots and has cotton socks on. To Rigby, this is Christmas morning.

He quickly robs the dead man of his shoes and puts them on his own feet. He can't help but chuckle. It feels as though he replaced his feet altogether.

After enjoying his momentary success, he looks at the corpse again. In the man's limp hand lies something Rigby's never seen before.

"What the hell?" he mutters as he pries the weapon from his grasp. The handgun, if one could call it that, is a mutilated bolt action rifle. The stock is cut right down to the handle. The barrel is sawed to mere inches from the bolt, and it doesn't even have any sights as if to add insult to injury.

Rigby slides the bolt of the obrez back. Sure enough, out comes the empty shell casing of a large rifle round. This must've broken his wrist. Rigby sighed as he put the weapon in his vest.

He enters the kitchen through an arched, open doorway. He searches the shelves and finds some sealed boxes of cereal. He gets to work removing the plastic bag from the space-consuming box. The cardboard is then ripped apart as a fire starter. If only the others could see how resourceful he was. A couple of cans go into his back as well. He doesn't dare check the fridge.

There's a clatter outside in the backyard. Rigby juts around immediately. His SKS. Where in God's name is his SKS?!

It's laying propped in the corner by the doorway.

The cluttering gathers closer to the backdoor in the dining room.

Just then, his flashlight begins to flicker. _"Not now! Of all the times, not now!"_ He hits it several times, but to no avail.

He inches towards the doorway. His heart pounds against his chest. All he has to guide his way is the dimming beam of his flashlight.

He turns briefly to his left.

Through the dining room, he sees a doorway pitch black. The backdoor is gone. Rigby didn't even notice when he stumbled in. He motioned his flashlight to the outside.

The light reflects off silvery, smooth skin just outside the house.

The flashlight dies.

Rigby jumps under the stairs in the living room. There is nothing but pitch black darkness. He can't even see the hands in front of his face. All he can hear is the muffled footsteps of the unsuspecting creature.

His hands are pressed against his mouth. Tears roll down his cheeks and across his paws. He can't move. He's frozen in place.

There's moaning outside the room, but Rigby can't tell where.

He forces his hand away from his mouth and into his vest. He pulls out the obrez. The bolt is locked forward; there's one round in the chamber. Just one.

All the while, feet clatter about inside the house. A few dishes on the dining room table smash.

The footsteps continue. They're coming from everywhere. They are everywhere.

A hand slams against the underneath of the staircase. Rigby presses back against the wall, still quiet. The glossy silhouette sits there. The figure is on top of the staircase. It's looking around; assessing the territory.

Rigby's silent crying goes on. His flushed face is soaked with tears. In agony he is forced to sit there; a rusty, useless artifact as his only hope.

It hisses faintly. It smells something here.

The hand retreats and the creature moves back down into the family room.

_"Just get it over with, please! Either him or me!"_ He can't stand the pressure of waiting.

The footsteps go silent. Nothing is heard.

Where is it?

Where the hell is it?!

Rigby sits there in silence, waiting for fate to draw its hand. The only way out would be the backdoor, but then where? Into the street? Even if he did kill this one, the gunshot would bring dozens more.

But even more pressing is the image of Rigby's organs shredded from his stomach and tossed across the carpet. It's all the plagues his mind. It'll swing around the corner, claw first. His arm will be sliced. Then the worst of it comes. It'll bite his neck and his blood will pump across the walls. It'll feast on that while it rips everything out of his chest across the pavement. He won't even have time to gasp or fight back.

_"Come on! Get it over with!"_

There's still nothing.

Nothing but his own heartbeat and stifled breathing. He needs to concentrate if he wants to be quick enough for it.

He'll have maybe a second and a half if he's lucky. He inhales deeply and exhales. With his left hand he draws the knife.

All he can do now is wait.

Sit there and let it come to him. After that, he'll improvise as things happen.

A minute goes by. Silence. He dares not move.

Another. Nothing.

Three minutes. Nothing happens. Rigby is getting restless.

He no longer feels fear but instead anger. It's just taunting him.

"You asshole." He jumps back. He didn't mean to say that.

The claw comes around the corner. Rigby slices at it through the darkness.

It screeches violently as its torso falls out of the doorway. Rigby levels and fires.

The creature's head explodes into a mist of gore. Rigby screams in pain as the sharp recoil causes his arm to sprain and ache. "AHH! FOR THE LOVE OF-!"

_RRRRRRWWWWHHHHHAAAIIIIIIIIIIIII_

Dozens of screams fill the air. The raccoon reaches into his bag and pulls out a flare. He sets the top ablaze with sparking, red flames. Rigby bolts for the SKS, puts the knife back, and sprints out the backdoor.

He leaps over the wooden fence into the yard behind the house. He can hear them gathering. He barges straight through the next building and back into the street. Five are sprinting towards him from the right.

Rigby bolts in the other direction on all fours, SKS in his right hand and the flare in his left.

They're gaining on him and can surely outrun him. More leap out of houses and through yards.

Ahead, an alley lies between the clustered houses. He turns sharply towards it.

He drops the flare at the edge and sprints against the chain fence at the end.

Unfolding the bayonet and with a ten-round clip at the ready, Rigby kneels, aimed at the sparking light illuminating the alleyway.

_"Remember everything Benson taught you."_

The screeching grows closer. The terrible cries echo down the road.

Fear no longer drives him at this point. Adrenaline courses through his veins. Rigby is nowhere near the cowardly raccoon the rest of the park knows him as.

The first one arrives around the corner, red reflections emitting from its chest. Rigby opens fire. It collapses as more take its place.

Rigby kills anything that dare moves. Even with a time-consuming reload, he is undeterred as he fires again and again at _them_. When the inevitable _click_ arrives, he slings his rifle and leaps over the fence. They are undoubtedly going to follow, but there is a pile of bodies that will slow them down.

Rigby runs exasperated and exhausted through the unknown darkness out of the unnamed town. He barely escaped with his life and is lucky to have lost nothing more than ammo.

Eventually, he reaches the comfortable highway yet again, thankful to have made it. He collapses to the ground and laughs at the fact he survived.

There's a reason why Rigby is still alive, regardless of whether the others are or not.

Light flakes still glide in the open air around him.

The night sky still looms overhead. It is far too late to set up camp.

Rigby marches until he finds an abandoned car and climbs inside. He wraps himself in his brown tarp. He's still feeling the rush from earlier. He's not even sure Mordecai could do something bold and epic.

He's lucky to have survived...

It was too close of a call. He drifts off to tormented thoughts of being ripped apart and thoughts of finding the corpses of his friends. There hasn't been a night where Rigby hasn't cried before sleeping.

In the morning, he awakes to yet another day on the road...

* * *

I apologize if there are any mistakes of the final scenes weren't as good as they could have been. It is about 3 in the morning as I'm publishing this chapter. Any mistakes will be fixed tomorrow.

Yes, there will be other RS characters that appear in this story, but if they are friend or foe is uncertain.

Thank you for reading and don't forget to leave a review and let me know what you think so far.


	3. The Real Monsters

Grudgingly, Rigby opens his eyes to be greeted by the dim light of the morning. He lays squished and claustrophobic on the floor in the backseat. He must have been too tired last night to realize where he fell asleep. Now his back is sore and his shoulders ache.

Rigby stretches as he sits up, awkwardly shifting between the seats as he does. His back makes several audible cracks. "A-aggghhh, ok." Another _crack_ came from his stretching shoulders. "Ahhh," Rigby sighed.

Peering out the car window, Rigby can see that the snow is beginning to melt. The faded, yellow winter sun pierces its way through the clouds. Patches of green begin to peek through the banks across the vast plains and forests outside. It still looks almost dead and hanging on by a thread. Nevertheless, it is much more welcome than the dull, chilling blanket of snow.

Despite how warm it looks, Rigby knows it will still be ice cold. Even in the car, he can still see his breath. Rigby takes a few minutes to organize his belongings and actually inspect what all he grabbed from yesterday.

He tosses his olive colored bag onto the center console and dives through it. He takes out the small cardboard box of 7.62x39. He'll need that soon and he'd rather not dig through everything twice. Upon finding the bag of cereal, he rips the top open and takes handfuls at a time. It all tastes like cardboard, but hey; food is food. The ice from last night has now melted in his canteen and he chugs it all down after his breakfast.

It was at this point that Rigby realizes that he kept his boots on all night. Without even taking them off, Rigby can already imagine the rank smell flooding the car. _"Ew ew ew ew ew!"_ he thinks to himself as he begins to slide off his right boot then his left. It's worse than he imagined. The putrid smell of sweaty feet fills the cabin. It reminds of rotten Gorgonzola cheese and the worst body odor. Rigby puts on his gas mask to brace the smell.

He freezes for a second to realize how ridiculous this all is. He's literally wearing a gas mask just to take his shoes off. This horrendous picture makes him chuckle. Mordecai would be giving him hell for this right now. Benson would probably kick him out of the car; hell he'd probably send him a full mile away. And Muscle Man, oh jeez... actually, he probably wouldn't complain. He smells even worse! Rigby's chuckle broke into full out laughter at how his...friends...if they were here right now and not... His laughter died instantly. _"Not gonna think about that now, not gonna think about that now!"_

He places his boots and his socks outside the car and slides back inside. He then dumps his four empty stripper clips onto the console. The lazy raccoon groans aloud. This was his least favorite part. He then unloads a bunch of rounds from the box into a large pile. The painstaking process of sliding each individual round into the clips seemingly takes forever. It's already been an hour since he awoke and he still has barely left the confines of the car. Rigby's toes bunch up, and his body struggles to feel comfortable inside the tightly packed back seat. His joints beg for the open air outside the car.

Eventually, he finishes all this, loads his SKS, puts his canteen in his vest, shoulders his bag, moves for the door and-

He pauses. He can't move.

Outside, on the glass window, stands one of _them._ It's gray, sickening face is pressed tightly against the window. His yellow, beady eyes dart hastily around the car. The creature looks as though it is smiling at him. Tattered clothing dons its pale, smooth chest.

Rigby gulps nervously. His shoes are sitting outside at the monster's feet.

It doesn't seem to be a screamer. That still doesn't remove the danger. Its left claw is raised against the glass. It's just standing there...staring at Rigby.

How long has it been there?

With a sickening, bone rattling _screeeeeeeech_, the claws scratch down the glass. Rigby winces. The creature notices this slight movement and stands more alert.

It crawls on all fours and circles the car, like a shark closing in.

Rigby racks the slide forward. It creaks loudly and is difficult to put back into place. The monster notices but seems to not care. He's more concerned with the flesh on the furred raccoon sitting inside this metal container.

However, this one seemed to be somewhat smarter than the others. It seemed as if it knew that if it tried breaking the glass, Rigby would shoot.

It just circled around, waiting.

It didn't need to charge; just wait out the poor raccoon until it was forced to leave. Then it could pounce.

Rigby sits nervously and uneasily. His SKS was too difficult to engage the slide. The last thing he needs is for it to jam on him.

He takes out his loaded revolver and places it in view of the center console. The monster probably has no idea what a gun is, but Rigby still keeps it in view. It comforts him at least and it's within arm's reach.

He will have unload his rifle and manually fill _another_ stripper clip, but it's worth it for a good cleaning; which this rifle is in desperate need of.

Then he grabs the cleaning kit out of his bag and gets to work unloading his rifle. Rigby struggles to remember how exactly Benson had shown him.

_"Alright guys. Guys! Can you focus for ten seconds?!"_

_It was no use. Mordecai and Rigby were already playing a poorly choreographed game of cops and robbers using deadly glock brand sniper assault high capacity assault hand clips._

_"SIT YOUR BUTTS BACK DOWN RIGHT NOW!" he shouted, face growing red with anger. The two groaned as they sat down in their chairs at the table lined with rifles._

_"Maaaaan, Benson, why can't we just start shooting and just be all, 'Who goes there? Pew pew pew!'?" Rigby asked intently._

_Mordecai concurred, "Yeah. Like this is boring. Isn't it better to actually teach us how to use these?"_

_"Look, we need to start with the basics. You need to know how guns work before you try to use them. You need to respect them." He slapped away Rigby's hand which was reaching for the AR, "And these are_ _not__ toys!"_

_Benson sighed aloud as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He began, "Okay, let's just go through the basic of the basic: what to look for. Okay guys-guys!" The two were too busy drooling like children over the AR-15 on the table. "Alright, fine! Which do you two think would be the best choice of rifle?"_

_The two instantly pointed to the AR. "It's obvious; the machine gun! Duh!" Mordecai stated in a matter-of-fact tone._

_"Wrong. Not just in what's best but in what it is," Benson surprised them. "First of all, it's not a machine gun. None of these are machine gun. You'd be lucky to find one actual machine gun. Almost everything is semi-auto."_

_"Bu-bu-look at it!" Rigby gagged over the black polish and the rails lining the famous rifle._

_Benson leaned back, as if preparing for a big lecture, "I like the AR and there is a lot of ammo for it... but it's the most popular rifle ever. Everyone has one, so everyone will be looking for ammo for it. Also, 5-56 is actually not as strong as they make it look in the movies and-"_

_"Boring! Can we just get to shooting it?" Rigby inquired._

_"NO! This is important! What if I died or you were on your own and you had to find this on your own?! Then what?!" he exploded. The two recoiled back into their chairs, partially ashamed. "Sorry for that. I just want you to know about all this because I don't want to see anything bad happen to you two. But... going back to what I was saying, you'd actually be better off with something like this," he said as he picked up the AKM._

_"But that's what all the bad guys in the movies use," Mordecai stated._

_The seismic shock from Benson's facepalm was staggering. He sighed, breathed, and continued, "The thing with AKs and other Russian weapons is that they're somewhat popular but nowhere near as much. 7.62-by-39 is dirt cheap and everywhere. You're going to run into more for this. Plus they're not __that__ bad. And even the bolt action rifles are stronger and everyone has Nagant ammo. Here, we'll get into all that ballistics and stuff when we try shooting and you guys are already falling asleep I can tell."_

_The dynamic duo rested their heads in their arms, trying to stay awake._

_"Let's just skip to cleaning and taking things apart."_

_"You're not very good at this, are you?" Rigby retorted._

_"It was so much easier when it was Thomas and the girls! Jeez! Anyway, here Mordecai, this can be yours," Benson said as he handed Mordecai the AKM._

_Rigby eagerly held out his hands for his new toy. "Oh, uh..." Benson stammered. He looked at the rifles on the table: the expensive, complicated AR; an AK-74 whose ammo is actually nowhere near as available; a cheap, ugly SKS, and a shoulder crushing Mosin Nagant. He takes the SKS and hands it to Rigby, "Here, this is more your size."_

_"AH, WHAT?! Bu-but look at Mordecai's!"_

_"Deal with it!"_

_The blue jay eyes his friend along with their signature, "Hmmph hmmph hmmph."_

_"Okay, so let's get started..."_

Rigby was too entrenched in his memory to realize how far on the SKS he had gotten. He planned on just taking the bolt back and doing a quick swipe down the barrel, yet it escalated into almost an entire disassembly.

Nor did he notice his audience.

The monster from before still stands, eyeing the raccoon hungrily. Yet now another has joined his side. On the other side of the car, two more stand as well. They all crowd around the tiny car, eyes lock on the tiny raccoon in the backseat.

It is at this point that Rigby begins to be overwhelmed with panic. He hastily puts his rifle together; fiddling with spring in the bolt.

Their waiting is finished.

The first of _them_ begins to slowly touch its head to the glass. Back and forth; gaining speed each time.

Rigby finishes, loads a ten-round clip and racks the bolt forward. Unfortunately, his shoes outside have to be left behind.

The raccoon dives over the center console. The creatures follow suit.

Rigby removed his knife from his holster. The creatures bang against the glass. Each audible crack sends chills up Rigby's spine and leaves him a shaking wreck.

He presses the knife deep into the ignition and forces it to turn. The engine revs before sputtering and dying. One more turn starts the small car.

_BANG_

The passenger window shatters onto the seat. Rigby shifts into to drive and immediately floors the pedal.

The car takes off, tires screaming and screeching on the pavement. The monsters give chase but cannot match the speed of the car.

Rigby laughs heartily to himself as he sees the gradually shrinking figures in his rearview mirror. He escaped danger yet another time. Except now, there's another lurking danger.

The car begins to beep at him. "What?! What do you want?!" Rigby demands aloud in a frustrated tone.

He's almost out of gas.

After a half of a mile, the car sputters and signifies its approaching failure. At the end of that half-mile, though, there is a rest-stop.

Rigby pulls off the highway and drives the slowing car up the ramp towards the tiny building. In the parking lot surrounding the stop are several scattered cars, long since abandoned.

Rigby finally relaxes; safe for now at least.

He grabs his bag and his rifle from the back seat and removes his knife. The ignition is permanently ruined, but it's not like the car's useful anymore anyway.

He steps out and takes a quick assessment of everything around him. There's nothing much to this tiny parking lot. The shattered glass on the building and the spilling of various maps give hints of being looted long ago.

Rigby sighs and walks around. The majority of the cars sit with broken windshields and flattened tires. "_No Gas"_ signs sit over the pumps.

He makes his way back towards the front of the rest stop and through the parked cars. One of them could have something useful in them: maybe food, clothing, or another weapon.

Then something catches his eye. There's a glitter of light on top of a hill in the opposite direction of the highway. He can't tell what it is, but it's angled towards him.

**_BANG_**

The bullet misses its mark and rips into Rigby's bag from the side, dragging him to the ground. That did not come from the hill. Rigby rolls onto his back. Rigby blindly fires his SKS.

A man stands but thirty feet away with a scoped PSL. A menacing gas mask clouds his face and only reveals his wild, crazed eyes. The rounds rip into his shoulder and chest, knocking him back.

The stranger still holds his rifle and returns fire. Rigby slips out of his bag and scurries behind a nearby car. The rifle rounds dig through the metal.

There's no time to think; no time to breath. Rigby presses himself against the side of the car and shuffles toward the front end. The glass windows shattered violently and coat the ground. Then he hears a mechanical _click_.

Rigby sweeps around the hood, gun at the ready. The man has tossed his rifle and sprints at him with a drawn knife. Before Rigby can react, he skids over the hood and kicks the SKS out of the raccoon's weak hands.

Rigby leaps back to avoid the next wild swing, almost falling to the ground as he does. The revolver is drawn and fired. It rips through the edge of the man's grey coat, yet he still charges. He lunges again. Rigby leaps to his left, revolver falling from his grip.

He picks up his SKS from the ground nearby and hurriedly gets to his feet. The man charges once more. Rigby extends the bayonet at the last second and takes aim.

_**BANG**_

They collapse together on the ground. Rigby howls in tortured pain as the knife rests delicately on the left side of his stomach.

The man gasps heavily. The openings on his gas mask turn red with his blood. The bayonet stabs him in the chest just below his heart.

Rigby screams. The man holds the knife into the raccoon's side. He yanks it out and forces it back into Rigby again. Rigby screams even louder as tears stream down his face. His body jolts to avoid the sharp pain. The sharp knife pierces through his flesh, spilling a fair amount of blood on the ground.

In desperation and anger, Rigby fires his rifle. Chunks of raw flesh spew from the back of the man's chest as his blood fountains into the air above them.

The stranger lays limp, yet Rigby pulls the trigger two more times. Rigby finally squirms his way from underneath the body. He squeals and collapses once his stomach touches the pavement.

The wounded animal whimpers as he crawls on his back against the wall. There he rests, crying aloud. His hands are drenched in blood, but he's not sure whose.

The dead man lay but ten feet from him. Bits of his chest are scattered behind and around him. The stained goggles on his mask are turned to Rigby.

"_A-aghh!_ I-i-t's, _gulp_, it's okay! I-I, _aghhh!_ -I'm okay!" He comforts himself. Something will surely be coming this way soon. He has to leave.

Yet the chance escapes him.

"Wooh, that is nasty."

Rigby's limp head shifts to his left. Four figures come into view, all wearing gas masks. Their clothing is relatively sound and consists of everything from jeans and hoodies to flecktern pants and olive coats. One carries an AR-15 while the rest wield AKs.

"Alright, looks like I won," says the one in front. It's easy to tell from his voice that he used to live in the city. His mask's filter is attached at the side near his cheek. He appears much shorter than the others.

"Are you serious?" comes a feminine voice behind him.

"Damn!" says another man who's busy scanning the woodline.

"I thought the bigger guy would have won for sure," replies the female.

"You all owe me. So pay up."

"Son of bitch," grunts the fourth man in a thick eastern accent as he pulls a rifle from behind his back. The barrel was thick and cylindrical while the stock was wooden and met with the metal at the back of the receiver. "'Vou know how illegal Vintorez is? This may be only one in country."

"You bet it against my AR, so a deal's a deal," replies the short one again.

The member of his group sighs and hands over the rifle. The woman reveals a thick pack of jerky and tosses it to the leader. The man on watch struggles with the holster on his thigh while supporting his AK. Once off, he tosses back the pistol.

The first speaks again, "You know the score. I put my bet on the small guy with the SKS and you all thought I was full of it. Look, if we find two more jackasses again, maybe you can bet this all back." He walks up to the corpse. "Yeesh." _CLUNK._ The new rifle doesn't quite crack, but is rather muffled. It sounds as though a wrench was dropped on the ground. The head of the corpse cracks open, spilling brain matter around their boots. The first stands inspecting his toy with heavy admiration before turning to the others, "Anyway, Nick: keep doing what you're doing. Lisa: search this guy. Alek: check the building. Who knows; you may get lucky twice."

"And what about you?" says Lisa.

"I'll check on our winner."

Rigby can hardly find the strength to move. He sits in wait as the short leader makes his way over to him. Rigby is greeted by the pale, masked figure. The leader kicks away the SKS. "I'll take that," he speaks passively as he reaches down and tosses Rigby's K-bar off to the side. The revolver still lies just out of reach.

"Well, if it means anything, thanks for the bet," the man gravely speaks to Rigby.

He raises the new rifle to the raccoon's head.

"P-plee-..." Rigby cannot even manage to finish the word.

Suddenly, the figure eases his weapon. His head cocks to the side with curiosity at the wounded raccoon before him.

"Hey! I think I know this guy!" The leader redirects towards the raccoon, "Rigby?"

Rigby's eyes widen with fear yet a hint of relief.

The short man crouches down to his level and removes his gas mask and pulls back his hood. The man is an otter whose usually shiny brown fur is now tinted and ruffled with dirt.

"You don't remember, do you?" he says. "It's me... Doug."

Rigby presses his back further against the wall. He doesn't like the look of how this is going.

"I'm kinda surprised, Rigs," he speaks in his noticeable Chicagoan accent, "You're the last one I'd expect to be here. What about, uhh, that blue jay guy: Mordecai? He still around?"

Rigby simply swallows hard, struggling to even open his mouth. The intense pressure from the stab wounds keep him from moving.

"Hmm, guess not. In case you were wondering about me, I've been alright since you got me in prison. Met a couple of guys, got a nice gig going, get to have fun playing the town bandits; it's working out for me. You know, you could fit in really well with us."

"Doug, what's taking so long?" Lisa demands, "I don't like it here. We need to keep moving before any fleshies show up."

"Alright, alright!" the otter shouts then turns back to the raccoon, "But you can't. I'm sorry to do this, but we don't leave survivors and we can't make exceptions."

"W-wait..." Rigby chokes out. His right hand shifts into his coat. It seems useless. He cannot run nor can he fight. The only thing left is to wait for his turn to die. Maybe, if he's lucky, his friends are already waiting on the other side.

"Hmm?"

"I-... Y-you, you f-ff-f-"

Doug leans in closer.

"Y-ou-..." Rigby's eyes jerk open. There's no reason to quit now. He almost forgot about his new toy from last night. He musters every ounce of his strength and pulls in Doug with his left arm, "You forgot to search under my vest."

The roar of the obrez thunders loudly as the blazing fire breaks from the muzzle. From under the chin, the rifle round rips into Doug's skull and nearly splits it in two. His head rocks back violently as a red mist coats the ground around him. His bleeding eyes open and stare blankly at the gray, desolate sky as he plummets backwards.

The other three stand aghast; their leader's blood paints the ground. Their driving force meets his end at the hand of a lowly, wounded raccoon.

Nick raises his AK towards Rigby. Then he screams violently as everything fades into a blur. One of _them_ leaps onto his back and rips his throat apart with an all powerful bite.

They followed Rigby here.

Nick's screams turn to gurgling pleas for help as the monster lashes at his sides, ripping the tendons from his ribs. Lisa fires wildly at the creature out of sheer desperate fear. The two fall together in the hail of bullets.

Two more leap from the woods. Lisa and Alek are forced to forget their friends and focus on the threat at hand.

Rigby's pain is quelled by the excitement. His blood pumps harder and faster as the adrenaline overwhelms him. Every fiber in his body screams over the arching stings in his side to move: move or die!

Rigby arches slowly forward, cringing. He can feel his wound stretch as he moves, sending another jolt of mind-numbing pain. Nevertheless, he has to live.

A pair of beady, golden eyes lock onto the raccoon's. Rigby racks the bolt back on his obrez in a terrified manner. The creature sprints on its legs towards him. A quick, unsteady shot blows the monster back to the ground. Rigby pulls the straight bolt up then back. The rifle is empty.

Rigby strains to lift himself back on his bare feet. The deafening rattle of inconsistent, sporadic gunfire surrounds the area. He limps feverishly to his SKS, then to his revolver, and K-bar.

Nick is already beginning to contort. He writhes on the ground, rolling and letting out churning gargling underneath his gas mask. The audible crunching of bones floods Rigby with the thoughts of Muscle Man's _turn. _

He turns to go for his bag, but it's near the other two bandits. Another one of _them_ leaps onto Lisa's shoulder from the side; tackling herto the ground and sinking its teeth into her forehead. Nick is already beginning to move like the others.

"DAMNIT!" Rigby screams as he limps away and leaves everything he owns behind. The blood still flows profusely from his side. He is reduced to using the butt of his rifle as a crutch.

He turns his back only to make sure none are following him. Once one hundred feet away, he keeps focused on the woods in front of him. He only flinches when Alek's blood-curdling screams echo from behind.

Low on ammo, bleeding to death, and having lost everything but the clothes on his back and the weapons in his hands; Rigby finds himself dangerously far from the road...

* * *

I think this is the chapter that makes this rated M. Sorry, but no more T rating

I apologize for the lack of updates, in this and _all_ my stories. I have been very tied up in everything. No promises but I will try to update somewhat more. I've taken the longest brake from CotE that is still ongoing. When I get back into it, I'll be pouring with ideas and drive.

Anyway, thank you for the read and leave a review letting me know what you think so far.


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